


Roots Have Grown

by AustinB



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Agoraphobia, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Modern: No Powers, Alternate Universe - No Powers, Beefy!Bucky, Christmas Party, Everything is Beautiful and Nothing Hurts, First Kiss, First Meetings, Fluff, Friends to Lovers, Frottage, M/M, Meet-Cute, Mild Angst, Mild Language, Mild Smut, Minor Violence, Non-Serum Steve Rogers/Winter Soldier Bucky Barnes | Shrinkyclinks, Pining, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Pre-Serum Steve Rogers, Protective Bucky Barnes, Protectiveness, Roommates, Service Dogs, Slow Burn, Sugar Baby Steve, Sugar Daddy, Sugar Daddy!Bucky, maybe not really shrinkyclinks but kind of so i'm going to tag it anyway, shrinkyclinks
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-27
Updated: 2016-06-12
Packaged: 2018-06-09 15:15:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 16,217
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6912451
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AustinB/pseuds/AustinB
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bucky is a mildly agoraphobic veteran with funds to spare, who becomes enamored with the cute blonde guy in his building. </p><p>So when Steve mentions needing a roommate to cut down on rent costs, Bucky decides it would be a good idea to volunteer.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [freesimorgh](https://archiveofourown.org/users/freesimorgh/gifts).



> GREAT NOW I HAVE 3 WIPs THIS IS FINE
> 
> allllll fluff I promise I won't be hurting you with this one

The distinctive ambulance wail increases gradually, then comes to a stop outside Bucky’s apartment building. He pads over to the window with his bowl of cereal and peeks out the curtains to see a dark haired woman and man unload a stretcher from the back of the ambulance and haul it up the steps with some haste.

He pads over to the peephole, in case they’re headed for his floor. Sure enough, a minute later, they rush down the hall and around the corner. He finishes his cereal by the door and is debating whether or not he should take it to the sink and risk missing them coming back down the hall when they do just that.

He pushes his eyeball as close to the door as he can without actually blinding himself. This is the most excitement he’s had since the guy with the dogs said hello when Bucky was picking up a package from the front desk last week.

At first Bucky thinks the paramedics are rolling a kid down the hall, but it might just be a short man; blonde. He has an oxygen mask over his nose and mouth and he nods when they tell him they’re taking him to Metro General.

Bucky goes to the window to watch them load him in the back of the ambulance. The flashing lights have drawn a few gawkers on the front lawn and Bucky scowls at them, for all the good it does, four stories up.

* * *

The next morning when he hears voices in the hall, Bucky splashes coffee all over his hand setting his mug down in haste to sprint over to the peephole. It’s a blonde man, the blonde man from yesterday, he’s sure of it, even though he hadn’t gotten a good look at his face before. He’s trudging down the hall, looking sallow and ashen, followed by a tall black man who’s hovering uncertainly, clearly wanting to help but for some reason keeping his hands to himself.

“I’ll be fine,” the blonde man says crossly over his shoulder. Oh, that’s why.

His voice is deep, reverberating down the hall. He’s short and thin, large hands with slender fingers. The angle of his jaw is fascinating; he's beautiful. Even his scowl is beautiful. But his shoulders sag under the stress of just walking down the hall.

“I know you will. I’m coming in anyway,” the other man says genially.

Bucky hasn’t seen either of them before. Creeping through the peephole is a relatively new thing for him—the longer he stays inside the more desperate he is for entertainment—and he’s still casing his neighbors.

He keeps the T.V. volume low all day and hovers near the front of the apartment in case there’s any activity, but all he sees is Dog Guy bounding past with two golden retrievers.

* * *

Bucky watches his neighbors go to and fro on their errands. There are six apartments on this floor: Cute Blonde Guy, Dog Guy, Terrifying Redhead, Adorable Young Family, Blind Guy and Gorgeous Blonde Lawyer (it appears that only one of them lives here but he can’t figure out which because they’re always together), and Bucky. They all pass at relatively predictable times, except Terrifying Redhead, who comes and goes at all hours.

Bucky himself goes out twice a week; once for groceries and once for therapy. Anything he can’t get at the grocery store he orders online. He buys a white-noise machine at the suggestion of his therapist, who thinks it might help him sleep. But not being able to track movements in the hall makes him nervous, so he leaves it outside Adorable Young Family’s door with a note.

Cute Blonde Guy goes out two or three times a week with a messenger bag, and usually comes back with a cardboard cup of something. He’s on his phone more often than not. Sometimes with a bank, sometimes he’s negotiating prices for projects. His deep voice carries a confidence Bucky doesn’t see in the dip of his shoulders. He seems to be ill quite often, but is polite and kind to a fault. Bucky's seen him a few times in the foyer, when he's getting his mail or a package from Maria, and the man will nod and smile and say hello to others who pass, or hold the door open for people, even on the day he was coughing raggedly into his elbow.

Bucky wants to do something for him. Help him, maybe? A not-so-random act of kindness. That’s not weird, right? He made some good investments before shipping out, has his Army pension, plus Stark Technologies paid him his retirement number to let them test the metal arm on him. So he has more than enough money and nothing else to spend it on. He could…leave an envelope of money in his mailbox. If he could get into his mailbox, which he can’t, and if that wasn’t creepy, which it is. And stupid; he can barely take care of himself and now he wants to take care of a stranger, too?

Bucky can’t think of a not-weird way to go about it, but on his way back from the therapist one Thursday afternoon, he figures it out. Cute Blonde is getting mail from his box in the foyer, phone pinched between his shoulder and his ear. Bucky hangs back; he needs to get his mail too but doesn’t want to encroach.

“Hey, this is Steve, I’m calling about the couch? Would you take $20? Alright man, thanks anyway.” Steve finishes his call with a heavy sigh, then the door behind Bucky opens and a golden retriever bounds ahead of Dog Guy, and makes a beeline for Bucky. Bucky bends down to pet him, and by the time he lifts his head, Steve is already heading away.

“He likes you,” Dog Guy says. Bucky panics for a moment, before he realizes he means the dog and not Steve. Bucky smiles, but after therapy, he can’t manage to force out any pleasantries, so he just grabs his mail and heads for his apartment.

And that’s how Bucky winds up pushing the couch from his living room out into the hallway and lurking by the peephole for the next three hours.

Dog Guy knocks on his door, instead.

“Hey man, how much for the couch?”

Bucky’s already looking over Dog Guy’s shoulder at the corner, in case his blonde comes around it.

“Sorry, it’s not for sale.”

Dog Guy blinks at him, then points down at the For Sale sign Bucky’d scrawled on an old takeout menu and placed on the cushions.

“Move along, buddy,” Bucky says amiably.

The guy just tips his head and smiles, “Alrighty. Hey I’m Clint, by the way.”

Bucky is forced to focus on him. “Bucky.”

“I train service dogs, y’know. If you’re ever interested in getting one, just let me know.”

“Uh, thanks,” Bucky says, a little taken aback at the friendliness and generosity of this stranger he’d just tried to rudely ignore.

Clint goes back down around the corner with a wave.

The next time there’s a knock, it’s four o’clock and Bucky had just decided it’s late enough to change into lounge clothes. He’s so excited that he opens the door while he’s still sort of putting his thermal shirt on. It’s Cute Blonde!—err, Steve.

“Hey,” Steve says, “How much for the couch?”

“Uh,” Bucky clears his throat, “Ten?”

“Ten dollars?” Steve repeats sarcastically, glancing between the couch and Bucky. He’s had the thing for five years, but it’s still in good condition. He’s had no animals, the leather isn’t scuffed or dirty.

“Five?”

Steve snorts, “No, no, ten is fine. I’ll take it.” He fishes some cash out of his wallet and hands it over. Bucky’s not sure what he’s going to sit on now, but that’s a problem for another day.

“Do you want a hand moving it?” Bucky asks.

“Yeah, if you’re offering. Thanks. I’m just around the corner, actually. Oh, I’m Steve,” he says, jutting his hand out. Bucky shakes it.

“Bucky.”

As Steve hoists the other end of the couch up, he says, with some amount of effort, “What kind of a name is Bucky?”

Bucky smiles, “It’s James, actually. James Buchanan Barnes. It just stuck when I was a kid.”

As they pass by the second doorway down the hall, it opens and Clint pops his head out.

“Want a hand, fellas?” He toes a dog’s nose back inside the apartment as he closes the door, then shoots a knowing smirk at Bucky. Bucky sniffs and ignores him, but blushes anyway.

“Nah, I got it,” Steve says, but Clint grabs the middle of the couch anyway, and Steve stands visibly taller.

Steve lets go to open his apartment door, the last one on the right, and Bucky and Clint deposit it in the middle of the empty open living room.

“Thanks, Clint,” Steve says, a little begrudgingly.

“No worries, man. See you. Bucky,” he says in parting. Bucky waves.

“Want me to move it anywhere?” Bucky asks, when they’re alone.

“No, I can do that,” Steve says, already eyeing the arrangement of the living room. There’s not much furniture already here, just an old kitchen chair that’s stacked with folders and papers. There’s an alcove to the left with a ratty recliner and a floor lamp, and the kitchen looks the most lived-in area of the place; with pots, pans and towels neatly arranged.

“You sure?”

“Yes,” Steve says shortly, then takes a breath as he walks with Bucky to the door. “Thanks. And hey, if you know anybody who needs a roommate, let me know.”

The idea forms instantly and gains traction so quickly, like a snowball rolling down a hill and causing an avalanche, that Bucky doesn’t have time to fully think through the ramifications before he says, “Funny you should mention that. I’m actually looking for a roommate.”

He feels a bit creepy for sort of lying, but the prospect of living with Steve makes him feel warm, and he’s had enough cold for a lifetime.

And he knows himself; he doesn’t want anything from Steve. Sure, _something_ would be nice, but he won’t push it. He’d be a good roommate. He’s mostly quiet, unless he has a nightmare, and he’s abnormally tidy these days. He can spare Steve the stress of having to pick out a roommate, and the risk of getting a bad one.

Steve looks him over. “Why? You don’t need the money.”

Bucky’s eyes widen. He barely got the lie out of his mouth before Steve caught him out. Not a great start to a potential relationship. “What makes you say that?”

“You just sold me an expensive couch for next to nothing. And,” he waves his hand over Bucky’s person to finish. Bucky looks down at himself. His clothes aren’t new by any means, but he’s in Seven jeans and a thermal top, and they’re well-fitted and high-quality.

“No,” Bucky admits. “I just want…” how does he explain this without sounding like a fucked-up Vet? “Sometimes I…” _want the vague connection of simply hearing another person in the other room without needing to interact_. Which isn’t a lie. He just didn’t realize until five seconds ago that a roommate was the possible answer to his seclusion.

“Ok,” Steve says.

Bucky squints. “Ok?”

“You can move in whenever.”

Bucky smiles in a little bit of disbelief. “You’re not gonna ask me any questions?”

Steve smiles back. “I’m a pretty good judge of character, but if it makes you feel better, what do you do?”

“Um, nothing right now. I was discharged two months ago. But they paid me for this, so.” Bucky takes the thin black leather glove off his left hand. Might as well get it over with now. Steve just nods.

“Ok. As long as you can pay half; whatever is fine. Do you have any questions for me?”

Bucky shakes his head as he puts his glove back on.

And that’s how he winds up moving in with Steve.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thanks freesimorgh for the idea!
> 
> Visual Inspiration for Bucky, quiet and beefy but really just tryna live a peaceful life:  
> 
> 
> And Steve 'I Can Get By On My Own' Rogers, all spit and vinegar:  
> 
> 
>  
> 
> [Title from Cats and Dogs by the Head and the Heart](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=NLLvocsmnNU)


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for hiding from canon in this innocent, fluffy AU with me. I'm glad to have you aboard :)

Bucky goes downstairs to tell Maria at the front desk, and gets a call from Phil a little while later. They live in a decent neighborhood and Phil’s a good guy; there’s no shortage of applicants for the apartments and he finds someone to move in right away. Phil puts Bucky’s last month’s rent toward his new living arrangement, and that’s that.

His hands tremble as he moves the seven handfuls of possessions from his apartment down the hall the next afternoon, wondering if he’s just made a huge mistake. It takes forty five minutes to move everything, start to finish. He’d sold off almost everything before he left for his first tour, gave the rest away to his old ROTC buddies. Steve already has his couch, and the only other piece of furniture is a mattress, no frame. The next largest item is his small television. He has a few plates, one soup pot and one pan, one coffee mug and one set of silverware. He does have a laptop and a few paperback novels to set in a neat line on the floor along the wall next to the T.V. that he doesn't even bother to plug in; it looks remarkably like his apartment from college, and he doesn’t mind it too much. He likes to live light.

As Bucky goes in and out, Steve is sitting on his new couch with his laptop on his lap and headphones in his ear, in a meeting with someone named Peggy who keeps making him laugh.

When Steve’s done with his call, he stands up with a sigh, “Sorry, do you want a hand?”

Bucky shakes his head. “I’m done.”

“You’re—? Ok. Cool. Well, I work from home most of the time, so I’ll be hanging here. If it bothers you, I can go in my bedroom.”

“No,” Bucky says quickly. “It’s fine.”

Steve’s apartment is laid out just the same; Steve’s bedroom to the left, open kitchen/living room area with a big window over the sink, looking out at the next apartment building, the bathroom and Bucky’s bedroom to the right.

As nice as it is to be close, he still hides out in his room for the majority of the next few days, and Steve seems content to let him. He’d moved the contents of his fridge into Steve’s, which was alarmingly empty, and he quietly makes himself meals behind Steve while he’s on the couch, either typing madly away, or on the phone with an array of people. Bucky takes his plates into his room to eat, then washes and puts them away in the cupboard.

When Steve’s not working remotely as a technical writer, he sits at one of the stools at the kitchen island with a tablet and draws. It appears to be mostly contract work, logos, cartoons. But late one night, when Bucky came out for a midnight snack—sleeping is not always so easy—Steve’s bedroom door was open, and he caught a glimpse of a canvas on an easel and Steve with a paintbrush, making careful strokes onto a beautiful work in progress; trees, mountains and water.

When Bucky brings a bag of groceries home one afternoon almost two weeks into cohabitation, Steve is just standing up from the couch, stretching his arms tall above his head, revealing a strip of skin just above his jeans. Bucky averts his eyes quickly.

“Hey,” Steve says, smiling. Then he winces and rubs his lower back.

“Hey.”

As Bucky puts the food away in the fridge, Steve comes to sit at the island.

“So what do you get up to with your days, anyway?” he asks.

When Bucky’s in the apartment, he’s usually hiding in his room messing around on the Internet, but he hasn’t been around all that much in the last week. He was starting to get a little antsy, and didn’t want to be seen as a bum, so he answered an ad for a night janitor at the MOMA, and the other day when he was buying groceries, one of the vendors, a veteran himself, offered him a job. It’s been great; he’s usually awake early in the morning anyway, and the physical demands of the job leave him tired in the best way. Plus he gets all the fruit that falls off the truck.

“I unload trucks at the market in the mornings—“

Steve slaps the countertop, “ _That’s_ why you’re always bringing home ungodly amounts of fruit.”

Bucky smiles, “Yeah. And I have a part-time thing at the MOMA.”

Steve’s face lights up. “You work at the MOMA?”

“Just at night, cleaning. I don’t sleep much, anyway,” he admits, without really meaning to. Steve doesn’t try to give him advice for his insomnia, doesn’t try to tell him it’s unsustainable, just nods.

“What a great gig,” he says instead, “Hanging out with all that art.”

Bucky nods. In truth, it takes him about twice as long as it should to mop the floors, for all the time he spends looking at the paintings and sculptures.

“It’s otherworldly at night,” Bucky says. “With the lights all low. I like the landscapes; how they can make you feel like you’re outside just by looking at them.”

Steve can talk for hours about art, and he does. He becomes more animated than Bucky’s ever seen him; usually he just looks tired, but now his eyes shine with passion. Bucky doesn’t understand half of it, but he listens intently anyway.

“You sound like an artist,” Bucky says.

“I paint some,” Steve demurs.

Even with Bucky paying half the rent, Steve still works more often than not, and hunches when he comes in the door with his mail. He doesn’t say anything about it, but Bucky knows what a bill-headache looks like. So he takes to buying way too many groceries and pawns them off on Steve as, “This is going to go bad if you don’t help me eat this.” Steve doesn’t seem to have caught onto him yet. Bucky’d be in big trouble if he did. It turns out to be a little more complicated though.

“You gotta eat one of those bananas before they go bad,” Bucky says one day.

“Can’t. Allergic.”

Bucky frowns, "Tough break.”

Steve shrugs. So Bucky avoids bringing bananas home, and peanuts, and shellfish, and a dozen other things he gradually gets Steve to admit to in the course of innocent conversation.

* * *

“Do you ever not work?” Bucky asks early one morning when he comes back from unloading the fruit truck and Steve is already on the couch with his laptop. He’s still in his pajamas, a blue T-shirt and blue plaid pants with a hole above the knee.

“Ugh,” Steve says, not looking up. Bucky takes a handful of bruised peaches out of his pockets and sets them on the counter.

When Steve takes a break a few hours later, Bucky is washing his coffee mug in the sink. He’d taken off his leather glove and set it on the windowsill.

“Jesus, these people,” Steve moans as he sits at the island, rubbing the bridge of his nose. “There are twelve of them on the team and everyone thinks they have to have a different opinion in order to be noticed.”

Bucky makes a sympathetic noise. Steve puts his chin in his hand and watches him for a minute as he wipes down the counter.

“Thanks for all the cleaning, by the way. I don’t know when you have time to do it. I’m always here and I never see you. Stealthy dusting ninja.”

Bucky smiles. “I don’t mind.”

Steve goes out a few times a week to meet with clients for his side graphic design contracts, and also to maybe meet up with friends for coffee, Bucky’s not entirely sure. But he takes the opportunity to clean the place. Neither of them are dirty people, so it doesn’t take long. Vacuum, sweep, dust, bathroom, kitchen, it takes him about an hour and a half and calms something in him that wasn’t there before his tours.

That afternoon there’s a knock at the apartment door while Bucky's in his bedroom, so Steve answers it. Bucky hears a woman’s voice, and then there's a knock on his bedroom door. Bucky opens it.

Steve has a plate piled high with cookies in his hands. He holds it up, “Sharon from across the hall wants to talk to you. And give us cookies.”

It’s the matriarch of Adorable Young Family. She’s standing just inside the door with a bald baby on her hip and waves at him as he comes to the door.

“Hey, I meant to come say thank you sooner, then I had to track you down. The noise machine really helps Ruby sleep, thank you so much for it. That was really sweet of you.”

“Oh, you’re welcome. I’m glad.”

“Cookies from a tube are a poor trade, but it’s the best I could come up with.”

“You didn’t have to do even that, but thanks, they look awesome.”

She leaves with a cute smile and a little wave.

“I think she likes you,” Steve says, mouth full of chocolate chip cookie.

“Isn’t she married?” Bucky asks as he sits on a stool and grabs a cookie too. “I’ve seen her with a guy.”

Steve shakes his head. “Her brother.”

“Oh.”

Steve is looking at him, waiting for a response, or maybe an explanation for the odd white-noise-machine-exchange, but Bucky feels weird volunteering information, so he doesn’t.

Bucky’s in his room that evening when Steve calls out, “Hey Bucky, you hungry?”

Bucky comes out to the kitchen.

“Do you like spaghetti squash?” Steve asks, taking something that looks like a casserole out of the oven.

“I’ve never had it,” Bucky admits.

“Well,” Steve grins that sarcastic grin he has, “buckle up.” He dishes a plate for himself and double the amount for Bucky. They sit at the island to eat. After a few bites, Steve asks, “Do you like it?”

Bucky’s chewing an unattractively large mouthful, so he just nods.

“Ok, good,” Steve says wryly. “It seemed like you did, but I just wanted to make sure.”

“It’s very good. Thank you,” Bucky says quietly.

“It’s nice to cook for more than one. For myself I either order out or it’s like one carrot and one onion. Now I can throw in three pounds of ground beef and five bell peppers.” Bucky laughs at his enthusiasm. “I like to chop,” Steve explains with a shrug, “It’s calming for some reason.”

“The serial killer you were in a past life,” Bucky says and is inordinately pleased when Steve tips his head back and laughs.

When Bucky takes both their dishes to the sink, he says, “Um, I can. I can pay for the food too—“

“God no, stop it,” Steve says, horrified. “I offered.”

They stand shoulder to shoulder at the sink. Bucky goes to take off his glove and realizes he’s not wearing it; it’s still sitting on the windowsill from that morning. So he washes their dishes in the sink and Steve dries them and puts them away.

“Do you have any family in the city?” Steve asks. Bucky shakes his head. “Out of the city?” Bucky shakes his head again. After a pause, Steve says, “My mom passed a few years ago. She was the last family I had.”

“I’m sorry,” Bucky says quietly.

Steve shrugs. “My friends are my family now.”

* * *

Bucky tries to resist Sharon’s tube-cookies so Steve can have as many as he wants, but his sweet tooth is beyond compare, and he winds up eating three a day until they’re gone. He thinks Steve got a couple, anyway.

He washes the plate and figures he better return it. It’d be rude to leave it on the counter and hope Steve will bring it back across the hall, considering she’d brought them for Bucky and he’d eaten most of them.

He knocks on the door, but thankfully no one answers. So he leaves it outside her door with another note, happy to have avoided the interaction completely.

Steve is on his tiptoes reaching up for a bowl from the cupboard when Bucky comes back in. He comes behind Steve and grabs the bowl, setting it on the counter. Steve glares over his shoulder with a fiery force.

“Oh,” Bucky says, surprised, and puts the bowl back in the cupboard, but close enough to the edge that Steve can grab it. Steve snatches the bowl down and makes himself some oatmeal as Bucky grabs himself an apple from the counter.

“I’m sorry,” Steve huffs. “People just…they think I need help because I’m…”

“That’s not why I want to help,” Bucky says.

“I know,” Steve says dismissively, but Bucky’s not sure he really does. And maybe it’s better that way.


	3. Chapter 3

The next night, Steve is fidgety. He’s wearing a blue button down and jeans, nicer clothes than he usually wears bumming around the house working, and Bucky can only come to one conclusion; he’s got a date.

His hair is styled back away from his face so you can see his bright blue eyes; it’s a little bit devastating.

“Need me to make myself scarce tonight?” Bucky asks, mostly teasing.

Steve laughs; he’s nervous. “No, dude. Thanks for the offer though.”

Bucky’s pretending to be busy in the kitchen, hoping to get a clue as to who, and what gender, Steve is going on a date with when there’s a knock at the door.

Steve takes a deep breath and answers it. It’s a dark-haired man with scruff on his face and hair gelled into a carefully coiffed mess. He smiles at Steve charmingly.

“Hey,” Steve says, in a tone Bucky’s never heard before; low and promising. He grabs his jacket from the hook by the door and shrugs it on, then slips out the door without a backward glance.

Bucky doesn’t _wait up_ for him, certainly not, but he is awake when Steve gets home at 3:43 a.m. He hears the door open and close, and then a thud, and then nothing, so he opens his bedroom door. Steve is sitting on the floor, leaning his back against the door. The streetlamps are throwing low light through the kitchen window so Bucky can see Steve’s eyes are closed and the soft smile on his face.

“Have fun?”

Steve yelps and jumps so hard he falls over, then lays on the floor and laughs, still a little drunk. “Jesus, Bucky, you scared the pants off me.”

Bucky shakes his head at that mental image.

“Yes, I did,” Steve says, like he can’t believe it.

“Good,” Bucky says softly into the darkness. “You deserve a break.”

Steve lifts up onto his elbows to look toward Bucky’s doorway, and even though he can’t possibly see through the darkness—his eyesight’s not all that great even with the contacts—Bucky still turns away and shuts the door quickly.

* * *

He’s coming back from therapy on Thursday when he sees a high-school-age kid struggling to cram a 60s-style bureau through the door to their building. Bucky holds the door with one foot and lifts the other end and they shove the solid oak monstrosity into the foyer.

“Whoo, thanks, man,” the kid says, leaning his palms onto the dresser to catch his breath.

“What floor?” Bucky asks.

“Fourth,” he says with a grimace.

“I’ll take this end,” Bucky says, hoisting up the back end, bearing the brunt of the weight on his metal palm while the kid steers around the corners in the stairwell.

His name is Peter, and Bucky helps him move the rest of his Aunt’s things into the apartment he’d vacated three weeks ago.

It’s an unseasonably warm early October day, and Bucky’s sweated through his grey long-sleeved shirt by the third trip. He shoves his right shirtsleeve up to his elbow, but leaves the other down, and his leather glove on.

Aunt May opens the door for them when they arrive on the fourth floor and directs them as to the arrangement of the furniture. They save the big couch for last, a cream and purple floral thing that looks like it weighs about seven tons.

They’re struggling up the stairs with it when Peter jokingly shouts, “Pivot!” and Bucky starts laughing so hard he has to set it down. A few minutes later, Clint bounds down the stairs going a million miles an hour and nearly trips over them, then helps them bring it the rest of the way up.

Clint has somewhere he needs to be, so Bucky and Peter take the remaining boxes upstairs, and Bucky gets a kiss on the cheek from Miss May for his trouble. She’s looks to be in her early 60s, snow-white hair piled atop her head in that bun that all Grandma-types somehow know how to do. Bucky likes her. She promises to bring him her signature lemon meringue pie and he tells her it’s not necessary, but knows she won’t listen. He’s looking forward to it.

Peter’s still calling out goodbyes down the hall when Bucky opens his apartment door. He waves one last time and comes inside to find Steve on the couch, fingers hovering over the computer on his lap, staring at him. 

He takes in Bucky’s sweaty hair and shirt and asks, “What are you doing?”

Bucky clears his throat and wipes his forehead with the back of his hand as he heads for the bathroom.

“I was helping Miss May’s nephew move her into my old apartment.”

“Miss May?” Steve repeats, turning around on the couch so he can keep his eyes on Bucky.

“Sweet lady. She’s going to bake us a pie,” Bucky says with a smile, then disappears to take a shower.

* * *

Steve is chopping celery while Bucky sits at the island, watching. He offered to help the first time Steve made dinner, and not since. Somehow he thinks Steve likes cooking for them as much as Bucky likes being cooked for.

Steve pauses in their conversation to say, “Dang, these are nice,” of the pans Bucky’d ordered online. When they arrived, in a box with a new knife set, he’d said to Steve, “I got some new pans and stuff, go ahead and use them if you want.” Bucky himself has no intention of using them, or keeping them when—if—he moves out. In his mind, they’re Steve’s now. Along with the leather recliner and floor lamp that will be delivered on Tuesday.

“It was like once I graduated high school it was this whole different world,” Steve continues, “I could choose my friends, people who had similar interests, and were less likely to push me into a locker,” he chuckles. Steve isn’t one to talk about himself, but Bucky’s usually pretty quiet, and Steve has taken to filling up the silences. It’s nice; Bucky likes his voice, plus he’s a snarky little shit.

Steve won’t let Bucky help cook, but he’ll let him help clean up. Whoever ends up at the sink first will wash, and the other will dry and put away. The system works; neither of them seem to feel the need for a chore chart, or resent being the one doing the washing. Bucky would do it every time, he doesn’t mind, but he knows Steve wants to feel he’s doing his share. Fairness and equality are very important to him.

It’s an endearing quality to Bucky, but not so much to others, he finds out. Steve comes home one day with a scrape on his chin and a torn sleeve. Bucky almost goes cross-eyed with a sudden icy rage.

He somehow manages to keep his voice level when he asks, “What happened?”

Steve shrugs, “Some dicks spewing misogynistic bullshit at the coffee shop.”

“And you…?”

He shrugs again, “Told them to stop.”

“And they…?”

Steve waves at his face for an answer, then goes into the bathroom to dress the cut. Bucky goes into his room to ride out the crashing wave of adrenaline, and to keep himself from offering to clean and gently smooth a bandaid over the line of Steve’s jaw.

* * *

Bucky’s under the sink replacing the kitchen faucet when he hears Steve come in the door. He’s no handyman, but he watched a few YouTube videos and had it figured out. He finishes tightening the bolt and wriggles out from under the cupboard to find Steve standing there with a cup in his hand, watching him. Steve blinks, then clears his throat, “Uh, whatcha doin?”

“Replacing the faucet.”

“Why?”

Bucky shrugs, “It was old.” This new one is much nicer; it has removable head and a spray option. Steve will like it.

“Thanks. Need any money for that?”

“Nah, it’s no problem.”

“Ok. So, I’m going out for drinks with some people tonight. D’you want to come?”

Bucky hesitates. He does. He wants to meet Steve’s friends, he wants to be part of a group, but the thought of having to talk to people, feel the pressure of contributing to a conversation makes him break out into a cold sweat. But he makes himself say, “Yeah, I’d like that.”

Steve grins, “Great. We’ll have to head out around seven.”

Bucky puts on and takes off every stitch of clothing he owns, trying to find the best combination. Not anything too casual, he wants to look nice. But not too nice, it’s not like it’s a date or anything.

He settles on a denim button-down, jeans and brown boots. He pulls his hair back into a bun at the base of his neck and feels wildly uncomfortable. He hasn’t gone out for drinks as a civilian in two years. But Steve’s eyes seem to linger on him a little longer than usual, and it’s the boost he needs to get out the door. Steve is wearing a blue sweater that makes his eyes glow, though even he seems a little self-conscious about it, plucking at the sleeves and tugging at the hem.

Bucky shrugs on his blue pea coat and holds Steve’s brown leather jacket up for him to slide his arms into. Steve snorts, but lets Bucky pull his jacket up onto his shoulders anyway.

As Bucky’s holding the door open for him, Steve says, “Shit, just a minute,” and snags his inhaler from the bookshelf in the alcove, shoving it in his coat pocket. Then they amble together toward a dive bar a few blocks away.

The handsome black man Bucky’d seen helping Steve the morning after he was taken away in an ambulance is standing by the bar with a brunette bombshell.

“Peggy, Sam, this is my roommate, Bucky.”

“Finally!” Peggy says, and Steve glares at her. Bucky shakes her hand, then Sam’s, and says, “Nice to meet you both.”

A table opens up in the back and they slide into it. Steve nurses one beer for an hour, but Bucky slams three in rapid succession to calm his nerves.

The three friends keep up a steady stream of conversation; they lapse into inside jokes once or twice, but all of them are polite and social, and make a point to include Bucky in the conversation without being blatant about it.

No fewer than three women and two men have been making eyes at Bucky from the bar. He realizes he’s an unintentional hipster dish, with his nice clothes and man-bun and the non-threatening way he doesn’t hawk-eye the room for someone to go home with. When he politely dismisses the second woman, Sam lightly punches him in the arm good-naturedly, “Dude!”

Bucky’s flattered, sure, and he _wants_ so much, but the thought of someone touching him, of the arm touching someone else makes him shudder. He’s a little twitchy sitting in the booth, but he’s content just with this.

He buys a couple rounds for everyone and Peggy says teasingly, “Yeah, he’s alright.” He’s at the bar about to pay for a third round when Sam comes up beside him with his wallet.

“I got it, man,” Bucky says, but Sam shakes his head.

“No way. Any one person does too much, he gets prickly,” Sam says, tossing his head back at Steve. “And I don’t think you want that.”

He probably doesn’t mean it like _that_ , but Bucky blushes anyway, because no, he doesn’t want that.

He sits back at the booth next to Steve. Two beers is clearly his limit, because he’s getting loud and there’s a pretty pink flush on his fair cheeks. A few minutes later, he leans over Bucky, wrapping his hand around his arm and shoving him over so he can get out of the booth to use the bathroom. Bucky scoots out and stands, hanging onto Steve’s elbow to help him up. But when Steve looks up around Bucky's shoulder, he shouts, “You made it!”

Bucky turns to see Terrifying Redhead from their building squeezing through the crowd with an enigmatic half-smile. She hugs Steve and greets Sam and Peggy with the same familiarity.

“Natasha, this is Bucky.”

“ _The_ Bucky?” Steve elbows her. “Good to finally meet you, even though we live on the same floor.”

Bucky’s already passed his word limit for the day, but he shakes her hand—strong grip, like she’s trying to send him a message—and says, “Pleased to meet you.”

An hour later, Bucky’s about to excuse himself and run home to hide when Sam and Peggy break up the party; they’re getting too old for this shit, yada yada. Natasha says she’s staying out, so Steve and Bucky walk home together.

“I’m sorry, Bucky,” Steve says unexpectedly. His eyes are bright with the buzz, but he looks regretful.

“What for?”

“I know this is…hard, for you.”

Bucky shrugs. It was kind of like pulling teeth, but he feels good, now that he and Steve are alone. He feels accomplished. Like maybe he can be himself again someday.

“It was nice. Your friends are nice. Thanks for inviting me.” But he still has to go straight to his room when they get home.

* * *

Bucky does some light cleaning after Steve goes to bed at night, reads a bit, and watches some funny, fluffy T.V. shows on his laptop. Usually around midnight he drifts to sleep with the computer or a book on his lap. Which is not great for the state of his technology, since he usually kicks and thrashes a bit and knocks it onto the floor, but it’s the easiest way he’s found to fall asleep. He’s managed to not have any real thrashers since he moved in— the proximity of another person really has been good for him— but it was only a matter of time.

He wakes up to the feeling of strong hands on his arms and he bolts upright. Steve is in front of him, expression wide and open with surprise and...fear. Bucky pushes Steve away, but before he can fall off the edge of Bucky’s bed, Bucky grabs him again, this time to hold him up. Bucky hangs his head, slumping forward half onto Steve, gasping for breath.

“Sorry, I’m sorry,” Bucky gasps, leaning back, but Steve leans forward, wrapping his arms around him and pulling Bucky’s head back down onto his shoulder.

“It’s ok,” he murmurs. “It’s ok.”

After a moment, Bucky’s trembling stops and Steve pushes him backward onto his pillow. Bucky screws his eyes shut tight; he can’t stand to see what’s on Steve’s face right now. Steve just smoothes his hand over Bucky’s brow, and the next thing he knows, Bucky opens his eyes and it’s morning.

He has to throw his clothes on in a flurry and skid out the door to make it to the fruit truck on time, feeling more rested than he has in months, and more ashamed.

* * *

He intends to hide in his room when he gets home, agonizingly embarrassed, but Steve doesn’t even let him get that far. He has coffee and bacon made and sitting on the counter.

“Hey, come eat,” he says.

Bucky hesitates in the living room, seriously contemplating just ignoring the request and hiding anyway, but Steve looks up at him, and Bucky trails over like he’s being tugged on a leash, completely powerless.

“Steve, I’m—“

“Honestly, don’t even worry about it,” Steve interrupts.

“I didn’t…hurt you, did I?” Bucky worries his lower lip between his teeth, subtly looking over Steve’s forearms and wrists for bruising.

Steve shakes his head. “Stronger than I look.”

Bucky nods and chances a small smile, “Yeah. I know.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bucky, all cleaned up for a night out with Steve and his friends  
>   
>   
> The thirst is real.
> 
> And Smol Steve, all cute n shit  
> 
> 
> ps how clearly excited am I to have learned how to code images into these notes? like, super duper.
> 
> thanks again y'all for hanging in, and freesimorgh of course, without whom this fic would not have blossomed


	4. Chapter 4

Bucky assembles the leather rocker/recliner and arranges it in the living room. The furniture is all pointing toward the wall where a T.V. should be but isn't, so Bucky hangs his tiny 30" T.V. on the wall. He stands there looking at it, wondering if it would be too obvious if he bought a bigger one. He decides to table that thought, and assembles the bronze shaded floor lamp and sets it next to Steve's old recliner in the alcove. 

Steve tests out the new chair shortly after with a "Hm," that Bucky chooses to take as approval. He knows Steve likes it when over the next few days Bucky finds him in it more often than not. One leg tucked up under him, the other bare foot on the ground, gently rocking himself as he takes a call or taps away on his laptop. When Bucky comes out to sit on the couch, or at the kitchen island, Steve will say, "I can move if you want to sit here."

After the third time, instead of, "No, I'm good," Bucky says, "If I want to sit there, I'll tell you," and it makes Steve smile.

* * *

Steve has started telling Bucky where he’s going when he leaves the apartment, the few times a week that he does.

“Having coffee with Peggy,” he calls over his shoulder on his way out the door, or, “Client meeting.”

Bucky says, “See you later,” and “Have fun,” and goes on working at the market and at the MOMA and falling in love.

One evening, Steve blows in the door like a hurricane, shirt on inside out, one shoe untied. Bucky’s on the couch with one of Steve’s books from the shelf—a sci-fi novel he’d asked to borrow—and he sits up, immediately tense. Steve throws the door closed behind him and storms to the kitchen to slam his palms down on the island.

“Goddammit!”

“What’s wrong?” Bucky jumps up and moves around the couch, but doesn’t want to get too close. Steve is touchy at the best of times, so he’s not sure what to expect, or if he’s allowed to offer help in this instance.

Steve looks at Bucky like he didn’t expect to see him, then clenches his fists at his sides, “That goddamn asshole!”

“Did he hurt you?” Bucky asks, taking another step closer to look over Steve’s exposed skin. There’s something that looks like it might be a bruise around his right wrist, but the guy bruises like a peach anyway and it could be anything. Steve had told him he was "going out" that evening, and even though he didn't elaborate, his clothes gave away that he was going on a date. 

Steve sighs and waves Bucky off, “No, not really. He kind of grabbed me, but,” he laughs bitterly, “He called out somebody else’s name. Not even an old boyfriend, but like he couldn’t remember which boyfriend he was with. _Hnnng,_ I’ve never felt so disrespected in my life,” he growls through clenched teeth.

There’s a heavy knock at the door, and both of them turn to look at it.

“Steve, baby, it’s not what you think,” says the muffled voice. Steve storms to the door, but Bucky gets there first. He throws open the door and the dark-haired guy he’d seen before is standing there, looking surprised to see Bucky.

Bucky wraps his metal hand around the guy’s throat and pushes him backward, slamming him against the hallway wall. The guy’s left hand comes up, but Bucky grabs his wrist and spins him around so his cheek is smushed against the wall. He cries out, and Bucky lowers his face to the guy’s ear.

“Next time I see your face, I will rearrange it in an even more unpleasant way. Next time you hurt Steve, you will never walk again, do you understand?”

He makes a move to break Bucky’s grip, but Bucky’s stronger than him and slams him back against the wall with a grunt. “Yeah, yeah, ok, _fuck_ ,” he says, and Bucky releases him. He rubs his wrist and walks backward toward the stairwell, glaring and throwing a look over Bucky’s shoulder at the open doorway, where Steve is surely standing.

Bucky goes back into the apartment, closing the door without looking at Steve. He gathers his courage and glances up; Steve’s glowering with all the force in his small body. It’s pretty intimidating, actually.

“I’m sorry,” Bucky says breathlessly, not from exertion but adrenaline. “I shouldn’t have done that.” Then he retreats to his bedroom and shuts the door.

He spends the next two hours beating himself up. He can’t believe he flew off the handle like that; lost control. He _can’t_ lose control—not with the weapon attached to his shoulder. He has no right, absolutely _no right_ to get into Steve's business that way.

Steve raps on his door lightly, surprising Bucky out of his self-flagellation.

“Yeah?” Bucky says. He’s still sitting on his bed with his elbows on his knees and doesn’t yet trust his legs to hold him up. Steve opens the door, a plate of food in his hand.

“Hungry? D’you want this in here?”

“Uh, no, I’ll come out. Thanks.”

Steve flashes him a tight smile and closes the door. Bucky gathers himself for a moment then meets Steve at the kitchen island, where two plates are sitting.

“Thank you,” Bucky says quietly. A few bites into their re-heated dinner, Bucky says again, “I'm sorry. I shouldn’t have done that.”

“No, you shouldn’t have,” Steve says sternly. “I can take care of myself, plus you almost broke his arm. He’s an asshole; you’ll be lucky if he doesn’t press charges.” Steve sighs, and the steely look on his face softens fractionally. “But it was pretty satisfying to watch.”

* * *

He’s almost back to the apartment building after unloading the fruit truck when Bucky sees Clint coming from the opposite direction, three dogs on leashes. Bucky holds the door open for them.

“Thanks, man.”

Inside, Clint unclips their leashes and lingers so Bucky can crouch and pet them all.

“What would I have to do to get one?” Bucky asks, while getting his face licked.

“Just say the word. And provide me with some documentation, but it’s real easy. You can come down to the shelter and we can see who’d be the best fit for you.”

The elevator pings and it’s Steve who walks out, leather messenger bag slung across his shoulders.

“Oh, hey,” he says. One of the dogs circles him and jams his nose into Steve’s crotch. “Yowza,” he says, then gives the dog the attention it wants. The dog is satisfied for a moment, then goes back to competing with the other two dogs for Bucky’s attention. “Wow, they love you,” Steve says, then his face lights up, “Are you going to get one?”

“Oh, no,” Bucky says, at the same time as Clint says, “Yeah!”

Bucky laughs awkwardly and chances a glance at Steve, who’s watching him warmly. “How would you feel about a dog?”

Steve shrugs, “As long as you don’t want a cat, it’s fine. I know you’ll take care of it.”

That afternoon Bucky knocks on Clint’s door. The blonde’s face lights up. “Ready?”

Bucky nods.

They go down to the shelter together, Clint talking the whole time, sparing Bucky the compulsion to contribute to the conversation. Even though it’s a little exhausting to listen to, it’s less exhausting than trying to talk himself. Bucky’s sure it’s intentional, and he’s grateful for silent understanding.

There’s a roomful of excited golden fluff bounding around his knees when he walks in. Clint makes all the dogs heel with one single word, and introduces them to Bucky. Shows off their tricks; shake, roll over, find the meds. It’s impressive. But there’s one female named Katie that instantly melts Bucky’s heart.

“I think you found your soul mate,” Clint says, putting the other dogs in the back room so they can sign some paperwork.

Bucky gets a free leash and a day’s worth of dog food. On the walk home, he stops by the store for more, plus bowls and _way_ more toys than this dog could ever play with in her life. He never considered himself a pushover, but there it is.

He takes her inside the store with him and she sticks close by his side, never once pulling on the leash, stopping when he stops and generally making him proud already. The kids in the store kneel to pet her and she closes her eyes sublimely for gentle head pats. The mothers smile at him indulgently and coo. It’s actually kind of nice.

He brings Katie home and sets her bowls and food in his bedroom. Steve is either working quietly in his room or out, so Bucky gives her the tour.

“This is the living room, Steve’s reading nook, the kitchen, the bathroom, and our room. You’re a good girl, Katie-dog, I know you won’t cause trouble but I feel the need to say it: Be a good girl. I want to keep you. Forever and ever and ever,” he’s kneeling in front of her rubbing her head between his hands and nuzzling her nose with his when he sees Steve leaning against his doorway, arms crossed over his chest and grinning.

“Shut. Up.”

Steve holds his hand up, “I didn’t say a word.”

Katie bounds over to him to say hello. Steve crouches to pet her, murmuring something about being a pretty girl.

Katie tries to sleep on the floor beside his bed, but he calls her up and tucks her in under the blankets beside him. Slightly ridiculous, yes, but she looks so cute with her head on the other pillow that never gets used, anyway.

Bucky figured she would be good for company, which she is, but she’s good for a lot more than that. When he twists and turns at night, caught in a nightmare, she licks his face until he wakes up. And there’d never been anyone furry trying to kill him in the war, so he recognizes the time and place immediately, instead of floundering and flailing, lost in the darkness. He buries his face in her fur and she lets him squeeze her as tight as he needs to. He’s always very careful with her, though. The last thing he wants is to hurt the only innocent thing in this world that loves him.

She’s a great ice-breaker on the street. He’s never had so many women try to make eyes at him, which would be great if he wasn’t in love with his roommate, but as it is, it’s just a nice confidence boost. And good practice stretching his social muscles.

She’s a smart dog, too. Bucky’s sure she’s the smartest dog in the whole world. He can show her something once, and she’ll recognize the word. So he teaches her what Steve’s inhaler looks like, and to bring it to him, just in case the need should ever arise.

* * *

Steve is great with Katie. Bucky's tried keeping her in his bedroom when he goes to work, but when he gets home, she's always curled up on the couch next to Steve, her chin resting on his knee. Steve takes her out to go potty in the grass in front of the building despite Bucky's protests of "You don't have to do that." There's an inversion happening here and Steve seems to revel in it.

Bucky's in the shower one day, shampoo suds in his hair when he hears Katie bark. He hasn't _ever_ heard her bark before, and visions of burglaries and Steve unconscious on the floor make him nearly slip in the tub in his scramble to rush out of the bathroom. He snatches the towel off the rack and holds it around his waist as he throws open the door.

Steve is on his knees, laughing, pushing Katie around and grabbing at the squeaky toy in her mouth. When he looks up at Bucky, the smile falls off his face. He glances between Bucky and Katie, seeming to realize Bucky's train of thought.

"I'm sorry!" he says, voice high and squeaky. "I riled her up."

Bucky's heart finally starts beating again, hammering in his chest both with adrenaline and multiple layers of embarrassment, since he's standing there clutching a towel low around his hips, suds rolling down his neck, metal arm and scarred shoulder on full display.

He huffs, "I thought...it's ok," he says, and goes back to finish his shower, shaking hands bobbling the conditioner bottle more than once.

Steve avoids him for a day and a half. Or maybe it's Bucky doing the avoiding, it's hard to tell. But once they both get over it, Steve still doesn't bring up the arm. Not the next day, or the day after that. A full week passes before he says anything about it. They're sitting in front of plates piled high with spinach salads and slow-cooked pork roast when Steve says casually, "Did you meet Tony Stark?"

Bucky nods. "He did it." Tony Stark is the one who attached Bucky's metal arm. But somehow Bucky can't force out that particular language.

"What's he like?"

Bucky shrugs. "Kinda how you'd expect. A little crazy. Funny. But good," Bucky says, a little curiously. The guy was a ball of energy, treating Bucky at intervals like a lab robot and then becoming deeply concerned about his comfort. "He tested this arm on me so other vets can have something like it. So they...so I...don't have to run around with one arm."

"Hm," Steve says, and Bucky can tell he wants to ask more about it, but he doesn't.

So Bucky says, "I can feel pressure and temperature all the way up. It's a little stronger than my other arm. Took me a while to get used to. It's wired right into me. Tony said he could make it look like a prosthetic. It wouldn't look like a real arm, but he could make it look not like a robot. But I said no."

He's still not entirely sure why, since he takes pains to hide it anyway. Maybe it was a pride thing at the time. He's served his country and sacrificed; he shouldn't have to hide it. And yet.

"It's beautiful," Steve says quietly, and when Bucky looks up sharply, Steve is toying with the spinach on his plate. That's not a word he would have ever used in association with his robotic attachment, and it takes him a few days to figure out how he feels about that.

Turns out, he feels pretty good about it.

* * *

Bucky notices Steve’s hearing aid sitting on the bookshelf in the alcove.

“What’s wrong with your hearing aid?” As Bucky speaks, Steve tips his head to the right so he can hear.

“On the fritz.”

“Can you take it to a technician or something? Or do you need a new one?”

Steve shrugs, “Either way it costs an arm and a leg. And I’m not a full-time employee, just a contractor, so I don’t have benefits.”

Bucky swipes it when he goes to work the next morning, and swings by a medical supply store. Well, it’s not so much a ‘swing by’ as a ‘take two extra trains and a bus to a different borough to find a distributor of this exact make and model.’ But he finds it, and Steve’s right, it costs an inordinate amount. But Bucky shells it out and goes home with a brand new one; an upgraded model, even. His shoulders are tensed for a fight when he gets home.

“Where you been?” Steve asks mildly, not looking up from where he’s sitting on the couch with his laptop. Bucky drops the paper bag on the coffee table in front of him and takes off his glove in the kitchen.

He hears paper rustling, and then Steve warns, “Bucky."

Bucky spins around. “I know,” he says, in a voice louder and harder than he’s ever used with Steve before. It makes his blue eyes go wide. “I know you don’t need my help but you’re gonna get it anyway. My money is mine to spend how I choose and I wanted to buy this for you, so there it is. You have friends who want to help you because" _because they love you_ is a little too close to the truth, "because that's what friends do. If it makes you uncomfortable, leave it on the counter and I'll take it back tomorrow.” Then he goes into his room to recover.

It doesn't help him calm down much; his mind racing with panic. Is this overstepping? What if he _does_ make Steve uncomfortable? God, what if Steve asks him to move out? But Steve should _have_ these things; he shouldn't have to go without.

When he quietly sneaks out of his room to get something to eat, Steve is sitting in the new recliner, wearing the hearing aid and a mulish expression that makes his jawline look like cut marble.

“You didn’t—“

“I know.”

“Thanks.”

“You’re welcome.”

* * *

“I have something for you,” Bucky says. It’s getting close-ish to Christmas, so he can justify it if anyone ever brings it up.

“You know how I feel about gifts,” Steve says with a wry smile. Bucky didn’t wrap it, because they’re not boyfriends, so he just grabs the black peacoat out of his bedroom and hands it over.

“I like mine a lot, figured you would too.” While that leather jacket Steve wears is sexy, it doesn’t have a hood, and the pockets are a joke.

“Great, now we can match.”

Bucky laughs. He hadn’t thought about that. “Not like we go many places together anyway.”

“Yeah,” Steve agrees absently, as he shrugs the jacket on. It’s a perfect fit, and Bucky gets a thrill of pride every time Steve throws it on over his shoulders, like it's Bucky wrapping him up in his arms, keeping him warm.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some visual _inspiration ___for Bucky throwing Rumlow (yeah you fuckin know it was that douche) against the wall.  
>   
>  I have a tiny bit of a _thing ___for beefy!Bucky. i mean, look at those triceps for god's sake  
>   
>  unf  
>   
> then there's smol Steeb again, my fiesty little angel  
> 
> 
> If you think Bucky's well-intentioned protectiveness/sugar-daddying needs an additional tag, let me know. And let me know _what_ tag, because I have no idea what to call it.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter's for godsensei

Bucky is about to take Katie out for a walk one day and Steve has a client meeting across town, so they head out the door together. They pass by Miss May’s door, and it opens behind them.

“Bucky, dear, wait!” she calls. Both Bucky and Steve hover by her open doorway as she goes back to the kitchen and takes a pie plate covered in tin foil out of the fridge.

“I know it’s late, but this neighborhood center has the best pinochle players and I just got so distracted.”

“Miss May, you shouldn’t have,” Bucky says.

“None of that, now. I’m sure you boys won’t have any trouble eating it all, right?” she says, looking between Bucky and Steve.

“No, ma’am,” Steve says with a grin, looking positively delighted.

“I’ll go put this in the fridge,” Bucky says, and he and Katie unlock their apartment door and tuck the pie away in the fridge. When they lock up again and go back down the hall, Steve is looking at his shoes, his fair cheeks aflame with a bright red blush, and Miss May is smiling broadly.

“You boys have a nice day,” she says.

“Yes, ma’am, you too,” Steve mutters for the both of them.

They walk together for a few blocks, then part ways with a quiet smile and wave. Bucky walks Katie down to the dog park and throws a frisbee for her for the next forty five minutes.

Steve gets home an hour after Bucky does. Bucky’s in his room with the door open and Steve calls out “Hey.” He changes his clothes and then goes straight to the fridge.

“Want some pie?” Steve asks.

Bucky grins, putting his laptop away and coming out into the living room. “Why, do you?”

Steve straightens up out of the fridge with a sheepish smile. “Lemon meringue is my weakness.”

“Good to know,” Bucky says wryly, sitting at the kitchen island. “Break it out.”

Steve takes down two plates, forks and a spatula. Bucky cuts the slices and divvies them out, giving Steve a piece slightly larger than his own.

“Whoa,” Steve says, but doesn’t protest further. Steve eats standing on the other side of the counter, making positively indecent noises that make Bucky blush for the images that roll through his mind.

“Have as much as you want,” Bucky says. “Never was big on fruit desserts.”

“More of a chocolate chip cookie guy, huh?”

“Chocolate anything, honestly.”

“Good to know,” Steve says wryly, and Bucky laughs.

* * *

The market closed when the weather started getting colder, but his vendor, Logan, brought him on for his off-season deliveries, trucking fruits and vegetables from greenhouses outside the city to grocery stores.

Logan was a marine for most of his life, and is just the gruff and quiet kind of guy, if a little aggressive, that Bucky gels with. He’s invited him for beers after work every day for the past two months, and Bucky has always declined.

But one day he doesn’t give Bucky a choice.

“Beer,” he says.

“No thank—“

“Beer,” Logan says again, turning and walking down the sidewalk after making their last delivery. Bucky can do nothing but follow.

It’s 9:30 a.m. but Logan takes them to the seediest dive bar Bucky’s ever seen; and he grew up in Brooklyn in the 80s. Bucky didn’t know bars opened that early, but Logan finds a side door, and the bartender greets him by name.

Logan doesn’t talk much either, but instead of feeling pressured and anxious, Bucky feels understood. They sit quietly and drink a beer, only a handful of words passing between them, then say goodbye.

They do this about twice a week all autumn long.

Bucky can still count his friends on his fingers, but he has to use both hands now.

* * *

Steve left forty five seconds ago for a new client meeting, and Bucky is still preening from the sight of him throwing on the jacket he’d bought for him when there’s a knock at the door. He doesn't see anyone through the peephole so Bucky opens the door. Terrif—Natasha is leaning against the wall next to the door.

“Steve just left.”

“I know,” she says. “Can I come in?”

He steps aside and she settles herself on a stool in the kitchen. Bucky stands across the island from her.

“So, James Barnes, you deliver groceries with a market vendor and mop the MOMA floors.”

He raises his eyebrows at her.

“A Sergeant in the Army, StarkTech attached to your shoulder.”

He squints at her, because he certainly hadn’t volunteered that information to Steve.

“And you’re a cop,” he guesses. She smiles and shakes her head. “Spy?”

“Close, but no. I’m just Steve’s friend.”

“And…?” Bucky would really like to know where she’s going with this and why he feels so threatened. Her demeanor suddenly brightens.

“I’d like to invite you two to my Christmas party tonight.”

“Oh?”

“Yes, both of you. Come to 4B at eight with booze and I’ll give you food and more booze. Deal?”

“Deal.”

She lets herself out.

Bucky tells Steve about this encounter, sans the background check his friend apparently did on him.

“She can be pushy, but if you don’t want to go, she’ll drop it.”

Bucky shrugs. “Sounds fun.”

He goes out to the liquor store down the street and buys two bottles of vodka, one of rum, one of whisky and one of wine, just to be safe.

“Jesus, Bucky, did you buy the whole store?” Steve says when he comes back.

“She said to bring booze.”

Steve just shakes his head with a smile.

It’s a Christmas party, so Bucky feels justified in dressing up. He has one pair of—he will not call them skinny jeans because he is a distinguished war veteran—but they’re pretty skinny. He pairs them with a charcoal grey sweater with a rollover collar and black boots. He thinks he looks dashing. But not as dashing as Steve, in his black jeans and dark blue button down.

Steve knocks on her door, because Bucky’s carrying a cardboard box full of top-shelf liquor. Natasha’s wearing a black sweater and black pants and a red Santa hat when she answers the door and waves them in. She peeks in the box as Bucky passes and whistles.

There’s a white tree with white lights and white ornaments in the corner. She’s one of _those_. Everyone from their floor is already there, plus four or five people Bucky doesn’t know. He tucks himself into a corner with a glass of vodka and watches the proceedings quietly.

There’s a sprig of mistletoe hanging in the middle of the living room and after a few drinks have been had, everyone is kissing everyone else. Natasha kisses Steve lightly on the lips when they happen to be caught under it and he doesn’t even bat an eye.

Bucky’s making small talk with Peter —which consists of him mostly nodding while the kid rambles on, and is actually pretty funny— when Clint bounds up and grabs Bucky by the arm.

“Come on, we have to go get Sam!” he exclaims.

“Do you even know Sam?” Bucky asks. 

“No, but Steve wants him to come, so we have to go get him.”

The logic makes sense to Clint, who’s had four refills of his drink already, and so they tumble out the door. Natasha even abandons her own party to join the quest to Go Find Sam, probably knowing no one who's ever met her would dare chance anything untoward in her apartment while she's out.

They don’t make it very far. Tripping over each other and laughing, Clint drags them into the first bar he sees and they have a drink, then go to a different bar. There, crowded together with the usual Saturday night riff raff, shouting to each other to be heard, Steve ducks his face close to Bucky's shoulder.

Bucky dips his head to say in his ear, "Are you okay?"

Steve tips his face up a bit and says, "Let's go," just as Clint shouts, "Yo, Rumlow!" Natasha nearly breaks her neck to whip around and glare sharply at Clint.

"Oh," Clint says. "Is that not a? That's not a thing anymore? Oh, good. Nevermind, go away," he says as Steve's dark-haired dickhead ex-boyfriend shoulders his way through the crowd to them.

"Steve," he shouts, ignoring Clint completely. "Can I talk to you?"

Bucky takes a step toward him, and must succeed in conveying his intentions through body language because Steve steps in front of him and puts a hand on his chest.

“I made him a promise,” Bucky says in a low voice. Maybe he’s had a little too much to drink too, because all he wants is to knock this asshat into next week.

“You’re not going to rearrange his face,” Steve says in a long-suffering tone, then turns to Rumlow, "No, you can't."

Natasha leads the way, cutting a path through the crowd. Clint follows, then Steve, who grabs Bucky's hand to tow him past Rumlow and through the crowd onto the sidewalk. 

There are groups of people loitering, smoking and talking, but the relative quiet of the snow-muffled street is like having cotton in his ears. 

"Steve!" Rumlow calls from behind. Steve stops, and Bucky stops with him, since Steve's still got hold of his hand. Clint and Natasha keep walking, which, in his vodka haze, Bucky thinks speaks volumes about their trust in him, to leave him here to be the sole buffer between these two.

“You really think this guy can give you what I can give you?” Rumlow says, gesturing to Bucky.

“And then some,” Steve spits pointedly, not missing a beat. Bucky lets go of Steve's hand only to slide his arm around his shoulders, because it feels like the right thing to do. Steve puts his arm around Bucky’s hips and pulls him away. Bucky can’t resist a look behind, lifting his hand from the jut of Steve’s hip to smugly throw the guy the bird.

They walk like that, arms still around each other, until they meet up with Clint and Natasha, who'd stopped a block up the street. Then Steve lets go of Bucky's hip and Bucky removes his arm from Steve's shoulders. The four of them walk back to the apartment, Sam completely forgotten, the raucous joviality of the season returning to them almost immediately.

Bucky walks next to Clint, and they have their own animated conversation while Steve and Natasha walk together a few steps ahead. Bucky watches as Natasha smoothes her hand over the lapel of Steve’s new jacket and says something to him. Steve replies and Nat looks over his shoulder at Bucky, who instantly looks down at his shoes, feeling caught out. 

Back at their building, things at the party are devolving rapidly. Their landlord Phil showed up while they were out, and is mixing his 'signature drink' for everyone. The next time Bucky looks up, Clint is down to his tank top and Natasha’s Santa hat, dancing with his dog in his living room.

Sharon is perched on the arm of the couch by herself, so Bucky stands next to her and asks about her baby. She lights up, but most of her words are like a different language to Bucky; pincer grip and binkies and something called cradle cap? But he nods and smiles anyway. She has to leave after a short while, because of said baby, and a minute after the door closes behind her, her brother enters, tagged back in to the party. He’s an average-looking blonde guy, a few years younger than his sister, and a genial type.

Bucky goes down the hall to the bathroom, but the door is shut so he leans his shoulders against the opposite wall to wait. But he catches voices from inside; one is obviously Steve’s, the other is quieter, but must be Natasha.

“—he’s not,” Steve says.

“Friends don’t do the kinds of things he does for you,” Natasha says.

“He’s a nice guy.”

“I don’t doubt that. But he also wants to bone you.”

Steve might protest further, but Bucky slips away to go sit in their quiet apartment with Katie-dog, listening to the music and the raucous voices and wondering how obvious he’s been. A few minutes later, Steve slips through the door and smiles at him.

Steve shakes a bottle of clear liquor at him, one of the ones Bucky’d bought that hadn’t gotten opened. Then he looks at the label, considering. “Top shelf. Good taste, Barnes. Care to crack it open?”

Bucky smiles, “Sure.”

Steve hands Bucky the bottle as he kicks his shoes into his bedroom and throws his jacket in after it, and closes the door. Bucky takes the bottle to the kitchen and cracks it open, then pulls two mismatched glasses down from the cupboard. He pours them both generous shots and they clink their glasses.

“Salud,” Steve says with a crooked grin, and they sip, holding each other’s eyes over the rims of their glasses. Steve breaks first, grimacing and sputtering. “God, vodka.”

Bucky smirks and shoots the rest of his. “God, vodka,” he says with reverence.

“Some of us have more discerning tastes, Barnes,” he says as he grabs a beer from the fridge.

Bucky laughs and pours himself another glass. He brings the bottle to the couch and Steve even helps him make a pretty good dent in it, despite his assertions that it’s terrible. As the noise down the hall peters out, he and Steve sit and drink and talk about holidays with family, recent holidays with friends, Bucky’s holidays overseas.

Bucky gets up to get Steve another beer, and another, until there are glasses and bottles littering the coffee table.

Then he realizes he and Steve are looking at each other earnestly, and he suddenly can’t remember what they’d been talking about.

“I wish I had some mistletoe,” Steve says quietly with a soft smile, miming holding a sprig over the two of them.

“You want me to kiss you Stevie, all you gotta do is ask,” Bucky murmurs, leaning in close, but stopping just short of Steve’s lips.

Steve whispers to the air between them, “Kiss me.”

So Bucky presses their lips together. Steve’s hand drops from above them to smooth over the back of Bucky’s head and neck. Bucky kisses him slowly, feeling it out; it's been such a long time.  Steve parts his lips with a sigh, grip tightening on the back of Bucky's neck as his tongue tentatively swipes at Bucky's lower lip. Adrenaline shoots through him, from his arms to his legs to his fingertips and he presses against Steve harder to let him know how very okay he is with _more_. Steve seems to get the message and he shifts up onto his knees, not breaking the kiss, but as he swings one leg over Bucky’s thighs, he kicks over a beer bottle from the table.

“Ah, shit,” he says, jumping up. Bucky grabs the bottle and sets it upright as Steve scrambles to the kitchen for a towel. He mops up the beer from the table, then straightens, holding the soaked towel in his hands awkwardly.

“Um, uh,” he says.

Bucky clears his throat, “We should…”

“Yeah,” Steve says. “Goodnight.” He ditches the towel in the sink and closes himself in his room. Bucky cleans up the bottles and rinses out the towel and when he slips into bed, still hard, strokes himself with the taste of a kiss on his tongue and Steve’s name on his lips.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> pls direct your attention to this  
> http://bluandorange.tumblr.com/post/92743106750/man-idk-what-to-say-past-i-almost-forgot-how
> 
> I spent a long time researching inspiration images for this chapter. It was /hard/ work, but I did it, for you.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! I love you!

Bucky usually remembers his dreams. They’re typically not fun, but that night, probably unsurprisingly, he dreams of Steve. It’s not the first time he’s dreamt of him, not even the first time he’s dreamt of fucking him, but with his kiss still so fresh on his lips, it feels so _real_. The way he throws his head back against Bucky’s pillow in ecstasy, the way he calls out Bucky’s name in that deep voice and reaches down to pull Bucky’s hips closer.

He wakes up achingly hard and comes quickly with images from his dream flashing behind his eyelids. Katie pushes her cold nose against his cheek and he elbows her away gently; it’s bad enough she watches him masturbate, he doesn’t need her kissing his face afterward. Bucky sinks bonelessly back into his pillow, more relaxed than he’s been in months. His stress levels have been pretty high since coming home, and erections have been few and far between. Bucky sighs happily before reality sets in.

He’s going to be painfully awkward this morning. What if he damaged the easy friendship they’ve cultivated? But it had been Steve who brought it up. If it was just a drunk kiss with whoever was nearest, he’ll deal with it, but if it was something lingering, maybe Bucky has a chance.

He gets dressed before venturing into the living room, but Steve isn’t up yet. It’s a bit late in the morning for Steve to be sleeping in, but perhaps the liquor hit him harder than it had Bucky. Bucky starts quietly making coffee, but then Katie scratches at Steve's bedroom door and whines, so Bucky raps on his door lightly.

“Steve?” No answer. Bucky cracks open the door, then throws it open and charges in. Steve’s tossing and turning in his bed, hair wet with sweat and shivering viciously. Bucky touches his face; he’s burning up.

His shoulders rack with thick coughs, and Bucky pulls him upright with an arm around his shoulders. Steve sags heavily against him. Bucky’s not sure Steve’s even aware he’s there. He thinks about using Steve’s phone to call Sam, but that cough is really disconcerting, so he goes with his gut and just calls an ambulance.

While he waits, Bucky wipes the sweat from Steve’s face with a cool cloth. Steve groans, and leans into Bucky’s hand. Katie brings him his inhaler from the living room; it won’t help in this situation, but it brings tears to his eyes anyway.

The paramedics knock and let themselves in, and Bucky steps back to let them work. They call Steve by name, looking into his eyes with a pen light and transferring him onto a stretcher. Bucky locks up the apartment and rides with him to the hospital.

He’s not critical, but they hook him up to an IV right away and diagnose him with severe pneumonia. Bucky’s allowed to stay in the room with him while they do this. Sam is Steve’s emergency contact, and he shows up an hour after the doctors and nurses all leave.

Once Sam’s satisfied that Steve won't be dying in the next five minutes, he turns to Bucky, “Thanks, man.”

Bucky just shrugs. What the hell else was he going to do?

“I’m good here if you’ve gotta run,” Bucky says after he fills Sam in on what happened.

Sam nods, “Yeah, I guess you’ve got this, huh?” He gives him a wide, warm smile that makes Bucky blush, though he’s not sure why. He’s still just got that kiss in the back of his mind.

Steve wakes up for a minute in the afternoon. “Bucky?” he slurs, groggy and disoriented.

“Yeah,” Bucky lurches up from the chair in the corner and hovers within Steve’s line of sight. “I’m here. You’re at the hospital. A little pneumonia, no big deal.”

Steve smiles briefly, and closes his eyes again.

The hospital financial advisor comes up to see if Steve is awake to talk about payment. He hasn’t even been there 18 hours, and they already want him to pay. Bucky goes down to the guy’s office with him and puts the full balance on his credit card.

Steve had given Clint a key to their apartment long before Bucky moved in with him, and he takes care of Katie that morning. Bucky texts to check in with him while Steve sleeps. Since she's technically a service dog, Clint swears Katie will be allowed in the hospital, so he brings her down.

“Thank you for taking her,” Bucky says. Katie bounds into the room and puts her front paws up on him.

“No problem. How’s he doing?” Clint gestures to where Steve is sleeping.

“Resting. He’ll be fine, it was pretty severe though.”

“Good thing he had you there.”

Bucky doesn’t know what to say to that, so he just nods.

Steve is mulish and sullen when he wakes up later that afternoon. “Was the hospital really necessary?”

“Yes,” Bucky says.

He clenches that strong jaw he has, making it stand out even more. Bucky wants to trace it with his fingertips.

After the doctor comes in and talks to him about how severe his condition was, he looks sheepish. He’ll be discharged the next afternoon after a night of observation.

“I’m sorry,” Steve says when the doctor is gone. “Thank you. And I’m sorry you had to—“

“It’s fine. You’re welcome.”

“You don’t have to stay.”

“At six I have to go to work, but I’ll bring you a change of clothes tomorrow morning.”

“You don’t have to—“

“I’ll go get you something to eat that doesn’t taste like Army slop. Be right back.”

He tells Katie to stay, so she turns back and puts her paws up on Steve’s bed. He pats the spot beside him, just as much of a softie as Bucky is, and she jumps up with him.

They won’t let him leave Katie with Steve overnight, so he takes her home and in the morning after work with Logan, he grabs a change of clothes from Steve’s drawers and his new black peacoat and heads back to the hospital. He swings by a bakery for some bagels and muffins on the way.

He realized before drifting to sleep the night before that he hadn’t thought twice about being in a hospital again. He spent a lot of time within white walls, the sound of a heart monitor beeping constantly in the background, and it all nearly drove him insane. But being there with Steve; he hardly thought about it at all. He had better things to think about than his own problems.

But Steve is glaring at him when he brings breakfast, clothes and 100 lbs of happy fluff. So he knows Bucky paid his bill, then.

Steve snatches the clothes out of his hand and goes to the bathroom to change. Bucky very intentionally stays on the other side of the room so he won’t be tempted to take his elbow and help; he's going to be in enough trouble as it is. Steve walks slowly, gingerly, but on his own power.

When he’s dressed, he apparently feels well enough to lay into Bucky.

“You can’t go around paying for all my shit, Bucky.”

“Why not?”

“I can—“

“Take care of yourself, yes, I know. But you don’t have to. I want to help.”

“Why? You’re not responsible for me. You’re not my dad or…or my boyfriend.”

The opportunity is there, and Bucky takes it, the words tumbling off his tongue without his brain’s express permission.

“What if I wanted to be?” Then he winces. “Your boyfriend, not your dad, oh my god.” He closes his eyes against the heat that blooms on his face. When he risks it and opens them again, Steve is looking at him, surprised and a little…hopeful?

“You want…”

The nurse chooses that moment to knock on the door and enter without waiting for a response.

“Oh good, you’re up. We need you to sign some discharge papers, and then you’re all set to go.” She hands him a clipboard and Steve signs it and hands it back to her. He gathers up his clothes from the night before and, Bucky holding the bag of uneaten baked goods and Katie’s leash, they head home. Steve is still a little weak and tired, and he tips his head back against the seat of the taxi and closes his eyes. By the time he gets home, his skin is ashy and he doesn’t even put up much of a fight when Bucky pushes him into his room and closes the door.

While Steve's sleeping, Bucky tries his best approximation of Steve’s spaghetti squash casserole. But he doesn't have a recipe and there's something missing, he just doesn’t know what. He’s wearing two oven mitts and contemplating the dish as it sits, steaming on the stovetop, one hand on his hip and the other at his chin when Steve's door opens.

“Did you mean it?” Steve says from his doorway. He looks like he just woke up; his hair is mussed, his shirt a little twisted and there’s a pillow crease on his cheek. “What you said before?”

“So much yes.”

“I’m a liability. I have a lot more health problems than you even know about. I could die at any time.”

“Steve,” Bucky scoffs, “You’re a stubborn asshole. You’re not dying anytime soon.”

“I’m…I’m…”

“Poor,” Bucky guesses. “Sick?” He takes one tentative step toward him, ditching the oven mitts on the kitchen island. “Kind, talented. Salty as a New York pretzel and I...want...” He takes a deep breath. “Will you date me, even though I’m a reclusive, volatile—“

“Handsome, caring, sweet idiot?” Steve finishes, grinning. “Yes, I will.”

Bucky steps in close and puts his hand on Steve's jaw, like he’s wanted to do for weeks, and leans down. Steve tips his face up into the kiss, hands coming to rest on Bucky’s hips.

Bucky forgets to worry about the metal arm, forgets to be afraid of someone touching him again, because it’s _Steve_ and his whole brain is filled up with that and that alone. There’s no room for anything else.

Steve goes up on his tiptoes, reaching up to wind his arms around Bucky’s neck. Bucky takes the opportunity to drag his hands down Steve’s narrow back, feeling the jut of his shoulder blades, the slightly crooked line of his spine. He pulls them together tightly, reveling in the feeling of Steve’s body against his own, and he parts his lips into the kiss. It feels like a wave crashing over him, the sensations acute after so long without. He swipes his tongue into Steve’s mouth and the smaller man gasps, then tilts his head down, resting his forehead against Bucky’s collarbone.

“I just got out of the hospital,” he says with a rueful chuckle.

“You’re right, you should sit down.” Bucky keeps his hands on Steve’s shoulders, unwilling to break contact just yet, and steers him to the couch. He turns, intending to get a glass of water from the kitchen for him, but Steve grabs his hand and tugs.

“You should too.”

Bucky sinks down next to him and they waste no time in reaching for each other. Steve makes no differentiation between Bucky’s flesh and metal arm; he wants both of them touching him, and Bucky obliges. Steve is impatient, for all his protests of just getting out of the hospital, he has no qualms about swinging a leg over Bucky’s thighs and straddling his lap. He rolls his hips down, grinding against Bucky’s already hard and desperately aching cock and stars explode behind his eyelids.

“Bucky,” Steve pants, seemingly for no other reason than to taste the name on his tongue. Bucky pushes Steve’s shirt up and off his head, eager to get his mouth on the sharp angle of his collarbones, laving his tongue down and across a nipple. Steve tips his head back with a moan, so Bucky does it again.

Bucky dips his fingertips under the waistband of his flannel pants and briefs, but not too far, he doesn’t want to push anything—

Steve steps off Bucky suddenly. Bucky jerks his head up to get a look at Steve’s face; if he offended him, or is going too fast—

Steve shucks his pants and underwear at once, then climbs back aboard Bucky.

Bucky says, “Gah.”

Steve reaches between them to pop the button on his fly and Bucky tugs his pants down low enough to get himself free. Steve wraps his hand around the both of them. Bucky goes cross-eyed and blurts, “Jesus Christ Stevie.”

“Yeah?” Steve breathes, and Bucky can hear the smirk in his voice.

“Yeah.”

Steve lets go of them long enough to tug Bucky’s shirt up. Normally he’d protest—the arm, the scarring—but anything Steve wants, he can have at this point, Bucky just wants him to touch him again. And he does, jerking them off together for a moment, then grabbing onto Bucky’s face to kiss him deeply and simply rolling his hips to grind them together.

Having a lapful of Steven G. Rogers after not being with anyone for nearly two years is almost too much to handle. As it is, he comes embarrassingly quickly, tipping his head back against the couch and painting himself with streams of come, holding onto Steve’s thighs tightly. He lifts his head again; he's not going to miss a second of this. Steve is looking down between them as he continues to rut against Bucky’s stomach. After a moment, he groans and adds lines of white to Bucky’s wet chest.

Bucky watches Steve’s face; his eyes screw tightly shut and his mouth drops open. He rides it out and then opens his blue eyes to look straight into Bucky’s. Bucky smiles, then laughs, feeling lighter and looser than he has in years, maybe ever.

Steve grins back at him, then Bucky rolls Steve under him, pressing his wet, sticky chest to Steve’s, who yelps, “Bucky!”

Bucky kisses him deeply for a moment, then pads to the kitchen for a wet cloth, ordering Steve to “Stay here.”

After Bucky wipes the come from Steve’s chest and his own, he turns to find Katie lying by the door, watching them.

“Voyeur,” he accuses, making Steve laugh, then he points at Steve. “And _you_ need to rest.”

“I will,” Steve says, reaching up for him, “After you kiss me again.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> d'awww *heart eyes* they did the sexy times! 
> 
> pls direct your attention IMMEDIATELY to these AMAZING fan arts:  
>  [Temariart](http://temariart.tumblr.com/post/108649650305/quick-doodle-i-love-ws-with-skinnysteve-so-much)
> 
> [BLU AND ORANGE](http://bluandorange.tumblr.com/post/103249577345/because-why-nooootttttt/)
> 
> [FIVEOCOCK](http://fiveocock.tumblr.com/post/84463806869)
> 
>  
> 
> There's another chapter of post-sexy-time fluff for you; stay tuned!


	7. Chapter 7

Bucky is curled around Steve’s back, sweat still cooling on their skin when he says, “Can I tell you something?”

“That sounds ominous.”

“It’s nothing bad. Not too bad, anyway.”

“Geez, please go on.”

“I put my couch up for sale just so I could talk to you.”

Steve is quiet for a moment, then he starts to laugh. He turns in Bucky’s arms and pushes him onto his back so he can lay on top of him, bracketing Bucky’s head with his arms.

“Well, if we’re in the forthcoming mood: I wanted to get you _here_ ,” he says, rolling his hips with a wicked grin, “pretty much since you moved in.”

“Really? I thought I annoyed you for a while there.”

“Just because you kept trying to feed me.”

“Me? You’re the one always cooking.”

“Yeah, because you kept pushing food on me.” Bucky laughs. He thought he was being so subtle about it, too. “I had to even the score,” Steve says.

“Steve, you didn’t have to even anything. There’s nothing to even.”

“Yeah, yeah. In any case, there you were, helping little old ladies move in and running out of the bathroom in just a towel—“

“ _Once_ I did that, because I thought you and Katie were being murdered.”

“—bending down under the sink with these fucking thighs,” Steve carries on, devolving into a growl and another hip roll that makes Bucky’s cock jump.

“Well,” Bucky whispers, “now you’ve got me here.”

“Yeah,” Steve grins, leaning down to kiss him, “I do.”

* * *

Steve is dressed in his gorgeous blue button-down again, with skinny jeans and boots, loitering in the kitchen while Bucky leans against his bedroom doorway, watching him.

“I don’t have to go,” Steve blurts.

“Go,” Bucky says _again_.

“Nah, I’ll stay,” Steve says, reaching his arms out to Bucky as he goes to him and tucks up into his chest. Bucky puts his arms around him, but says, “You should go. I want you to have fun.”

New Year’s Eve is not his thing. _Christmas_ was hardly his thing, with the crowded parties, but at least there weren’t any fireworks. Natasha had invited them both out to a party in Manhattan, where she promised swank galore, and while it did sound appealing, Bucky’d rather test his tolerance to loud noises in private first.

Steve sighs against his chest, “Fine,” then tips his lips up for a kiss, which Bucky gives him.

When Steve is gone, Bucky puts on his noise-cancelling headphones and lays down, trying to meditate the anxiety away. He turns toward the wall in an effort to cocoon himself.

It’s still a few minutes until midnight when Bucky feels the bed dip behind him, and Steve slowly curl himself around him. He’s breathing hard, like maybe he ran up the stairs, and Bucky would berate him for it, if he weren’t watching the time tick down on his phone screen.

The firework booms are muffled through his headphones and it's really not all that bad; he hardly even flinches. When the biggest ones are done, Bucky reaches up to take off his headphones, but Steve puts his hand over them. There must still be some cracklers shooting off. So he settles back in to wait.

After a minute or two, Steve pulls on his shoulder and Bucky slips the headphones off. He rolls onto his back to smile at his boyfriend.

“Happy New Year,” Steve says. Bucky just pulls him down for a kiss. Dates don’t mean much to him, the turn of a new calendar year is just another day.

But _moments_ — that’s what really matters. This moment, right here, with Steve’s smiling lips on his as he shifts up and over to straddle Bucky’s hips; this moment, right here.

* * *

“Are you sure this is allowed?” Steve asks as Bucky swipes his badge at the back door of the MOMA.

“Sure,” he says, which probably doesn’t inspire confidence. Raoul brought his daughter last week. Even if he doesn’t have express permission, he’s sure it’ll be fine. And if it gets him fired, that’s fine too.

Bucky walks Steve up to the third floor, where his favorite exhibit is housed. It could be considered creepy; the hallways empty, deserted. Footfalls echo down the corridors, the yellowish-blue lights are low. But Bucky finds it peaceful.

When they walk through the hallways lined with paintings, Steve stops and stares. The oil paint is almost 3-D, sculptured against the canvas, and the low lights from below throw strange shadows over the faces and the shapes of trees and grass.

Steve moves slowly, staring at each painting for a long time. At the end of the hallway, he moves to the other wall and goes back. Bucky watches his face, the way his eyes dart from top to bottom of each piece, the pull of his eyebrows when he finds the artist’s pattern, when he reads the emotion in the layers of paint, the brushstrokes.

“Other-worldly,” Steve mutters. “Amazing. Absolutely…”

At the end of the row, he turns to face Bucky, wonder writ on his face, lighting up his eyes. Bucky smiles at him. Put the two of them in a room with priceless works of art, and Bucky’ll look at Steve Rogers all goddamn day.

Steve holds his hand as they walk home. When they pass by Bucky’s old apartment door, he glances at it, thinking about himself on the other side, watching the world move around him. He squeezes Steve’s hand and is rewarded with a squeeze in return.

Katie greets them at the door as though they’d been gone for days rather than hours. Steve crouches to pet her for a moment while Bucky ditches his shoes in Steve's room.

Bucky's all but moved into Steve's room. He sleeps there every night, and it's not like he has many possessions to move anyway, but his clothes are slowly migrating into Steve's closet. Steve's got a dresser and end table, a bedframe for his mattress and pictures hanging on his walls. It feels so much like home that Bucky has a harder time getting out of bed in the morning than he has in months.

Now, the sheets are clean and dry, sitting in a heap on top of the bed where he'd thrown them before they left for the MOMA. He's never washed sheets so much since he and Steve got together; they accumulate an impressive array of wet spots and come stains. 

Bucky spreads them out across the mattress, and Steve moves to the other side to help tuck the corners under; smooth and flat, the way Bucky likes. As they throw the comforter across, Steve straightens up and looks at him, something revelatory on his face.

“I love you.”

Steve’s not one to show any emotion he considers a weakness; being small and getting picked on for it his whole life has driven that home. But once those words are said, _fear_ is written plainly across his face.

That won't do.

Bucky clambers across the bed to grab him. Steve yelps and laughs as Bucky throws him down onto the pillows. He peppers kisses across Steve's face, then kisses him properly, lips on lips, deeply and soundly, so he'll know he means it when Bucky says, “I love you too.”

Steve strips Bucky of his shirt and pants, and makes short work of his own clothes, then fishes around in the night table for the bottle of lube. Bucky’s getting hard, cock lying heavy on his stomach as Steve wraps one slick hand around it and the other goes behind himself.

“I _just_ washed the sheets,” Bucky whispers, mostly teasing.

“Oh, should I—do you want me to stop?” Steve snarks, hand stilling on Bucky’s cock.

“No no no no, keep going, keep going.”

“Are you sure? We’ll probably get the sheets dirty again.”

“I don’t care,” Bucky vows, “Get them as dirty as you want.”

They do get pretty dirty with lube and come and sweat, and when they’re finished, Bucky strips the sheets off again and the three of them sleep curled up together happily on the mattress pad.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading, all! :)
> 
> <3
> 
> [Let me throw in a shameless self-promo just for the hell of it](https://www.amazon.com/Nautical-Miles-N-L-LaFoille/dp/1499216238/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1472414015&sr=8-1&keywords=nautical+miles)


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